


Bedtime Stories

by straponselina



Series: Rumors and Hearsay [1]
Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: And some arson! Yay!, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Statutory Rape, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23889310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straponselina/pseuds/straponselina
Summary: Over the years, Nacho hears stories of his boss's cousin.
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga, Tuco Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Series: Rumors and Hearsay [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1850434
Comments: 11
Kudos: 64





	Bedtime Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title: When Nacho Met Lalo

For a long time, Lalo Salamanca was nothing more than an urban legend.

  
* * * * *

  
When Nacho first heard the name “Lalo,” he was a boy lying in bed with a man. He was 16 years old, one year older than he was when his mother died. In that year, every room in his house became consecrated ground. He felt the need to tiptoe about, afraid to disturb the sanctity. Pictures of his mother he had never seen before appeared next to family photos she had hung on the walls herself. She had been vivacious, but the women that stared down from the walls were inert, pinned down by their heavy frames. Nacho could feel their eyes on him as he ate dinner in silence with his father, who looked at him very little that year. On the days when his grief didn’t turn his jaw stiff, Manuel would look up from his plate and say “she was good, _mijo_.”

There was nothing good about Tuco Salamanca. Before his mother passed, Nacho wouldn’t have been caught dead hanging around a guy like him. He was rough around the edges, and in the middle, too. He was in his early twenties when they met, but he already acted like he ran Albuquerque. Nacho would see him from time to time at parties— the ones he went to when his grief-cluttered house grew claustrophobic— but he could never quite pin down who had invited him. He would loudly boast about how he had once shot a cop, or how he was on the DEA’s most wanted list, or how no one moved crystal in the South Valley without his say-so. The night Nacho finally approached Tuco and told him he wanted in, Tuco had laughed. 

“You got some big balls, _ese_!”

When Tuco took him to bed, he wasn’t gentle or kind. He told Nacho he “wasn’t no faggot” and that “real gangsters do this shit all the time in prison.” Nacho never brought up the fact that they weren’t in prison. The sex was rough and exciting, especially when Tuco would give him a bump of something before. Afterwards, Tuco would throw an arm around Nacho, light up one of the imported cigarillos he thought made him look like Tony Montana, and recount some of his favorite stories— the kind that only a prince of the cartel could tell.

“You think I’m crazy, you should meet my cousin, _Loco Lalo._ That motherfucker killed his own dad!” 

Nacho rolled on his side and rested his arm across Tuco’s chest. He silently mouthed the name. _La-lo_. A name so simple, a toddler could pronounce. His hand crept up Tuco’s chest until it found the little silver boxing gloves that always dangled from his neck. He rolled one between his thumb and his forefinger. 

“What happens if a Salamanca kills another Salmanca?”

Tuco scoffed. “That asshole wasn’t a Salamanca. He married my tía Paloma.”

“Why did your cousin kill him?”

“‘Cause he had it coming! He thought he was better than us! He taught economics or some shit at the university and acted all holier-than-thou ‘cause he never moved product or pulled a trigger.” Tuco exploded with a bellowing laugh. “That little Mother Teresa _bitch_ never gave a shit about spending our drug money, though!”

Nacho palmed the little silver glove. He wondered what his own father would think if he ever found out his son was selling drugs for a Salamanca. When he was little, his father told him cautionary tales of poor souls who had been involved with this family of boogeymen. Everyone from Chihuahua to Oaxaca knew the name Salamanca. Having been born north of the border, Nacho had never imagined he’d meet one himself. 

“But what made your cousin snap?”

Tuco squinted at him. He looked bewildered. Nacho wondered if he had ever even considered the question. Tuco took a long drag from the cigarillo before shrugging. 

“He was around your age, fourteen maybe. It was time for him to get in the game, ya know? But the Professor always wanted him to be straight. Lalo had to show him what’s what.”

Nacho rested his head on Tuco’s shoulder. Usually, it would have been a line too far. Tuco would have pushed him off and called him a queer, but for once he seemed lost in thought. Nacho squeezed his eyes shut. Tuco was a distraction, he reminded himself. He would be done with him before his dad could ever come close to finding out. He breathed deeply, hoping the secondhand smoke might fumigate the unfamiliar twinge of anxiety blooming in his stomach. Suddenly, he was startled by another burst of raucous laughter from Tuco.

“I forgot to tell you the best part!”

When Nacho looked up at Tuco, his eyes were gleaming.

“He roasted that bitch alive!”

  
* * * * *

“ _Salamanca?!_ ” Manuel roared. He was a mild-mannered man, and anger seemed misplaced on his weathered face. “What were you thinking, _mijo_? Don’t you know better?”

Nacho kept his eyes locked on the table where he sat as his father paced across the kitchen. Silently, he cursed Domingo. After two years working for Tuco, Nacho was making some serious bank. He was careful to hide it from his father, but couldn’t help throwing his weight around when he went out with his friends. Domingo had approached him just like Nacho had approached Tuco, but Nacho wasn’t nearly as compliant. Domingo had to beg him every day for a month before Nacho finally handed over a half pound of meth. He didn’t rat Nacho out, but he was careless. He hid it under his bed like a stash of porno mags. Inevitably, his mother found it. Instead of confronting him, though, she followed her son. She followed him straight to El Michoacáno, just in time for collections. 

Nacho suppressed a shudder, imagining what she must have thought when she peered through the window to see her perfect little boy and his best friend sitting at a table with Tuco Salamanca.

“Haven’t I told you stories of what the Salamancas have done?” Manuel continued, not stopping his fretful march.

“They’re old wives’ tales, _papá_ ,” Nacho muttered.

If Manuel heard him, he didn’t pay any mind. “They are all heartless! Every last one of them! One Salamanca tried to hide guns in a church, and when the priest dared to defy him, he hung him from the bell tower. Another Salamanca fed his unfaithful wife to her brother’s hounds. Another one burned his own father alive! For God’s sakes, they use children to sell their drugs!”

Nacho gritted his teeth. “That’s not true.”

Finally, Manuel stopped his pacing. He turned to Nacho and, slowly, Nacho met his gaze. The fury was gone from his face, leaving only a deep, trenchant sadness.

“You are a child, _mijo_.”

Silence hung in the room. Nacho wanted to tear his gaze from his father’s, but was suddenly paralyzed by the feeling of a dozen other eyes staring down at him from the kitchen walls. Nacho’s own eyes began to sting with tears.

“I’m done. First thing tomorrow, I’ll tell Tuco I’m out.”

Manuel sighed and patted him on the back. Without saying a word, he turned to the cupboard, pulled down a glass, and walked to the fridge. Nacho squeezed his eyes shut and felt hot tears tumble down his cheeks. When he opened them again, a glass of milk sat in front of him. 

  
  
* * * * *

Nacho didn’t hear of Lalo Salamanca again for another decade. The morning after his dad found out he was working for Tuco, Nacho went to Tuco’s house. When Tuco asked him what he wanted, he opened his mouth but nothing came out. Tuco pulled him inside, gave him some crystal, and fucked him hard. Nacho felt nothing, but when he closed his eyes he saw flames dancing across the insides of his eyelids.

As the years went by, Nacho came to know more Salamancas. First he met Tuco’s abuelita, then his tío Hector, then his cousins Marco and Leonel. But it was the Salamanca he didn’t know whose name echoed in his head when he couldn’t sleep. _La-lo_ . The boy whose father tried to make him live an honest life. _La-lo_ . The boy who decided instead to burn it all down. _La-lo_. The boy who set alight his own flesh and blood.

Tuco called him early one morning, told him to meet him at his boxing gym. When he arrived, Tuco was in the ring with No-Doze, throwing jabs at raised punch mitts. Tuco grunted like a wild boar. Each blow landed harder than the last, pushing No-Boze back towards the ropes. It had been ages since they fooled around, but Nacho couldn’t help but be reminded of the way Tuco fucked, like a prize fighter in the last round. 

Gonzo sat on a bench next to the ring, watching them intently. Nacho took a seat next to him.

“What’s up?”

“Don Hector called him last night. You know that biker gang moving into Corrales?”

“Yeah, Hector said Tuco could handle it.”

Gonzo shook his head. “He changed his mind. Said Tuco’s too hot-headed. He’s called up another one of his nephews.”

“Marco or Leonel?”

“Neither. You heard of Lalo?”

Nacho suddenly felt queasy. “Yeah, once or twice.” It dawned on Nacho that as Tuco’s brother-in-law, Gonzo probably knew more of the Salamanca roster than he did. “You ever meet him?”

“Nah. He was invited to the wedding, but he couldn’t make it.” He shot Nacho a dubious glance. “I’ve heard stories, though.”

Nacho raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, like what?”

“All kinds of shit, man. He’s one crazy motherfucker. He cut out the tongue of one of his own guys for interrupting the punchline of a joke. He once seduced a nun just to prove he could. She fell in love with him and left the church, but he just laughed in her face and now she’s a prostitute in Juárez.” Gonzo chuckled. “The guy’s heartless. He even shot his own dad when he was twelve.”

“He shot him? I heard he burned him alive.”

“That’s not what Ana said. She told me he shot him, and then Hector helped him burn the body. Get rid of the evidence, ya know?”

“Fucking Salmancas,” Nacho muttered under his breath. Gonzo smirked.

The gym bag at Gonzo feet started ringing. Tuco dropped his gloves and whistled at Gonzo. Gonzo fished through the bag, pulled out a phone, and tossed it to Tuco. Nacho, Gonzo, and No-Doze waited in dutiful silence as Tuco spoke in clipped, muttered Spanish. The conversation was brief. Tuco tossed the phone back to Gonzo and grinned. 

“Lalo’s not coming. Trouble at the border. Looks like we’re back in business, boys! Let’s go crack some skulls!”

* * * * *

The sight of El Griego Guiñador at night never failed to make Nacho’s stomach turn. It loomed against the night sky like some ancient mausoleum, but the menace of its silhouette was undermined by the pastel paintings of ice cream, fruit cups, and parfaits on its facade. The headlights of Nacho’s dilapidated van briefly spotlighted sickening murals as he pulled into the parking lot. Getting out, he paused, glancing at the Oldsmobile 442 in the spot next to him. Arturo Colon worked directly under Don Hector, but his role was not so different from Nacho’s as Tuco’s top lieutenant. Nacho wondered what kind of cut Arturo earned to afford a car like that.

Inside the shop, three tables were occupied. One by Hector, one by Arturo, and one by Marco and Leonel. Nacho hadn’t known the twins were in town. He gave them a terse nod, but was met with identical blank stares.

Hector grunted and nodded to the chair across from him. Nacho took a seat.

Hector regarded him in silence, sipping from his espresso. Nacho said nothing, rehearsing his story in his head. When Hector finally spoke, his voice was hoarse and his tone aloof.

“What happened?”

“We were at the restaurant, finishing up collections. Some old gringo pulls up and clips Tuco’s car. We confront him about it, he wants to exchange information, but Tuco sees he’s got cash on hand— a lot. So Tuco tells him to cough up the money, but the guy won’t do it. It’s his social security or something. Tuco flashes his gun, and the old man finally gives him his wallet. Then we hear sirens, Tuco tells me to bounce, so I bounce.”

Hector continued glowering, his eyes as dark as the black guayabera he wore. “Why did he have a gun?”

Nacho clenched his jaw. He knew this question was coming, but he still didn’t have a good answer. What made this racket work was the hierarchy. If a guy like Tuco got into trouble, he was supposed to rely on guys like Nacho to take the heat, both on the streets and from the cops. It was stupid for Tuco to carry when he didn’t need to— Nacho knew that, and Hector knew that. But what was Nacho supposed to say? _I told him to not be so reckless, but your nephew cares more about being tough than being smart._

“Tuco’s always strapped.” 

Hector grunted. “ _Idiota_.”

Nacho didn’t react. Hector narrowed his eyes.

“What does that say about you, Varga? Eh? That you would follow a man so careless?”

Nacho stayed silent. This wasn’t the first time he’d suffered the brunt of Hector’s misplaced anger. He wouldn’t be goaded into bad-mouthing his nephew. 

Hector turned to the twins. “We’ll need someone to take over Tuco’s business. Is Eduardo available?” 

Marco shook his head. Hector threw his espresso against the wall. The ceramic cup shattered and fell to the floor with a loud clatter. No one in the room flinched. Hector turned back to Nacho and jabbed a finger in his direction. 

“Eduardo— now _that’s_ the kind of man you want to hitch your wagon to. He’s smart, knows when to control his temper. A real Salamanca!” Hector sighed, running a hand over his face. “But no Eduardo, not for now. You and Arturo, you will handle Tuco’s operations and report to me.”

With that, Nacho was dismissed. As he climbed into his van, he tried to imagine the paradox Hector described— an intelligent and level-headed Salamanca. It wasn’t until he pulled into his driveway that he remembered a common nickname for Eduardo was _La-lo_. 

  
  
* * * * *

As Nacho pulled up to El Michoacáno, he felt oddly at ease. Things were going smoothly for him, considering he was being blackmailed by one drug lord over his attempt to assassinate another. Ever since Victor and Tyrus had used him as set dressing in Arturo’s staged death, Nacho had heard very little from Fring. For all intents and purposes, Nacho was running the Salamancas’ Albuquerque territory. He’d call Marco or Leonel with operational updates from time to time, and then turn around and report the same information to Fring. Dormant anxiety rested in the back of his mind, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but these last few months without a Salamanca looking over his shoulder felt like the closest thing Nacho could get to a vacation.

But when he entered the restaurant, his calm immediately dissipated. He was greeted by noisy cumbia playing from the kitchen and two frightened faces, one belonging to Domingo and the other to Juan Carlos, the restaurant’s proprietor. He gave Domingo a questioning look, but Domingo just shook his head.

Through the kitchen window, he could see a man with slicked-back salt and pepper hair dancing to the music. It seemed he hadn’t yet noticed Nacho's arrival. Shoulders tense, Nacho began to advance towards the kitchen. He hiked up the back of his shirt, fingers brushing the butt of his gun.

When he entered the kitchen, he remained silent. He leaned against a post, waiting for the man to notice him. When he finally turned around, he greeted Nacho with a wide, toothy grin.

“Oh, hey! You’re here! Right on time.” The man had a laugh in his voice, switching effortlessly between English and Spanish. He sprinkled something onto a plated tortilla before turning back to the flat top. “Hold on one second. You are going to love this! I made this just for you. Never in your life have you tasted something so delicious.” The man used a spatula to heap skirt steak from the stove onto the tortilla. He turned back to Nacho and held out the plate with a smile. “You’re gonna die.”

Nacho held the man’s gaze for a beat and then glanced down at the plate. “ _No gracias_.”

The man stepped closer, crowding Nacho against the post. Nacho was overwhelmed by the smell of chili powder and expensive cologne. The man took a deep inhale, sniffing the plate. “Smell it! You can’t say no, are you crazy? I used _epazote_ , man, come on!”

Nacho said nothing. The man backed off with a shrug. “Very well. You’re not hungry— that’s your problem. This is a special recipe. A family secret.”

_Fuck_. Nacho leaned forward against the counter, eyes locked on the man’s back as he returned to pushing seared meat across the stove. “The Salamanca family?”

“Them!” The man turned back around to give Nacho yet another gleeful grin. “ _Yo soy Eduardo_. But you can call me Lalo.”

Nacho’s heart sank.

  
  
* * * * *

Lalo was both the ruthless beast from the stories and prudent businessman Hector had once described. But Nacho soon came to realize there was even more to this complicated man. 

Gustavo Fring told him to get close to Lalo, so that’s exactly what he did, the same way he got close to Tuco all those years ago. It wasn’t hard. Lalo enjoyed his company. He chatted with him constantly, and much of that chatting bordered on flirtatious. The first time Nacho cornered him in El Michoacáno and dropped to his knees, Lalo acted as if it were just a matter of time. 

Sex with Lalo was vastly different from sex with Tuco. He fucked Nacho hard like Tuco had, but Tuco fucked like he was trying to prove something. Lalo was completely unabashed and unbridled. In between savage bites that would leave bruises in the morning, he would whisper endearments into Nacho’s mauled skin. _Cariño. Tesoro. Amorcito._ It was a tenderness Nacho never dreamed the monster from those legends capable of. 

Afterwards, he would pull Nacho into his chest, resting his chin on the top of his head. He would run his hand over Nacho’s scalp, slowly caressing him. 

Like Tuco, he enjoyed talking after sex. 

“You've been with my family a long time, haven’t you, Ignacio?” He asked one night. 

Nacho hummed in response. 

“You ever hear about me? Before I came up here?”

“Bits and pieces.”

“Like what?”

Nacho glanced up at Lalo. He had a playful grin plastered to his face, but Nacho’s pulse started thumping as images of dancing flames and scorched flesh began playing through his head. 

“Come on, man!" Lalo tugged at Nacho's ear. "I want to know if my reputation precedes me!”

“I heard you killed your father.” Slowly, the smile faded from Lalo’s face. Nacho paused, mulling his next words over. “I thought family meant everything to you Salamancas,” he muttered.

Lalo's expression was blank, unreadable. 

“ _Sí, es cierto_. You see, I did it for my family. My father was a drunk, and he hated my mother. He resented her for her status, for her wealth. And when he drank, his resentment turned violent. One night, it went too far, so I stepped in.” His hand drifted down, nails drawing light circles into the nape of Nacho’s neck. His eyes softened as he gazed at a point over Nacho’s shoulder. “I loved my _mamá_. I would do anything for her, and she would do anything for me. She used to tell me ‘Eduardo, you have a fire inside you. If anyone tries to put it out, burn them to the ground.’”

  
  
* * * * *

_Lalo was ten years old on the last night he was awoken by shouting. He pulled the covers over his head, hoping it would be over soon. But the yelling only grew louder. Finally, he crept out of bed and went to investigate._

_He tiptoed down the hallway, wary of the creaky floorboards. He made it to the banister overlooking the parlor without making a noise. The voices were coming from the kitchen. Now, they were cut short by sounds of something heavy smashing against a wall._

_Lalo made it to the top of the stairs. He took the first step._

_Thud! An agonized moaned. Lalo took the next step._

_Crash! An anguished scream. Lalo took the next step._

_Bang! Silence._

_Lalo held his breath. The silence persisted. He turned around, intent on heading back to the safety of his room, but the step beneath him creaked. He froze._

_From the kitchen came an anxious whisper. “Yolanda?”_

_Silence. Lalo's heart was pounding in his chest._

_“Eduardo?”_

_Lalo clenched his tiny fists and descended the stairs. He walked slowly into the kitchen._

_His mother was standing behind the island. Her long black hair, usually perfectly neat, was in disarray. Her left eye was encircled by dark purple splotches. In her right hand, she held a small snubnosed revolver. Lalo rushed forward._

_Paloma placed the gun on the counter and grabbed Lalo by the shoulders, stopping him from making it to the other side of the island. She lowered herself so that she was eye-level with him. He peeked over her shoulder. Barely, he made out a mop of black hair in a pool of something dark and thick. Paloma grabbed his head and pulled his face close to hers._

_“Mijo, I need you to go to the garage. Grab a gas can and meet me in the backyard. Bien?”_

_Lalo tried to nod, but found it difficult with his head in his mother’s strong grip. She released him and he made a beeline for the garage._

_The gas can was heavy. Lalo had to wrap both of his small arms around it as the sloshing of the liquid threatened to throw off his balance. When he finally made it to the backyard, Paloma was standing in front of the garden shed. The door to the shed was wide open, but without a light on, the inside was dark and abyssal._

_Paloma wrested the gas can from her boy. He watched as she walked into the shed, but lost sight of her as she was immediately enveloped by the shadows. The pungent smell of gasoline filled the crisp night air. Shortly, Paloma exited the shed. She lit one match, then a second, then a third, throwing each one into the darkness._

_Flames erupted from the blackness, illuminating the interior of the shed. Briefly, Lalo could see the outline of a body lying motionless on the floor, but it was quickly engulfed by the fire._

_Paloma walked back to her son’s side and took his hand. Lalo looked up at his mother as she watched the shed burn. Her expression was blank, unreadable. He squeezed her hand._

_“¿Estás bien, mamá?”_

_Paloma looked down at him and smiled._

_“Sí, estás bien.”_

_Lalo watched the fire dance in his mother’s dark eyes. It was beautiful._

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. They smoked cigars, not cigarillos, in Scarface. But I made it a cigarillo because when Tuco was young his whole tough-guy attitude probably seemed like more of a front. It's also a bit of a Tuco's-got-a-small-dick a joke for my own amusement :)
> 
> 2\. Since there might be more people exploring this tag post-finale: come find me on tumblr @sob-dylan ! I'm always down to talk about BCS!


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